


something other than the desperation

by Macremae, OnyxSphinx



Series: newmann one-shots [145]
Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Closure, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, both post-pru and pre-pru, drift fuckery, i guess kind of a hopeful ending?? if you squint, ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-07
Updated: 2020-03-07
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:42:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23044978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Macremae/pseuds/Macremae, https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnyxSphinx/pseuds/OnyxSphinx
Summary: Sometimes, you can't escape fate.
Relationships: Newton Geiszler & Newton Geiszler, Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb
Series: newmann one-shots [145]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1286762
Comments: 4
Kudos: 21





	something other than the desperation

**Author's Note:**

> anon asked: "What do you think about this for a prompt? PR1 Newt encounters post-PRU Newt when they both are drifting."

They are standing in a blank space.

Or—no; _he’s_ standing in a blank space. Two of him, anyway, even if he’s not sure if the other one _is_ him. Still; worth asking.

“Are you me?” he asks; the words soundless in the void and yet echoing; drags painful nails on window-panes and soothes the burn of the Drift all in one, or at least, that’s how it feels—he’s not quite sure what’s going on here.

The other one—the other maybe-Newt—shrugs, the motion making his sleeves ruck up a bit; reveal the more faded scars that mirror Newt’s own. “Depends,” he says, quietly; and he’s not meeting Newt’s eyes. He’s not wearing glasses, either, so that’s a point in favour of the “this is all a dream and/or hallucination” theory.

Newt laughs; harsh. “ _Cryptic,_ ” he says. “On?”

The other’s expression shifts; goes, for a moment, blank; like he’s trying to find the words, like he knows what he wants to say but doesn’t, exactly, know _how._ “At what point,” he says, finally, “you consider someone stops being themselves, and…I guess, becomes a different _version._ ”

“…that makes…. _literally_ no sense,” Newt says, after a moment.

It makes the other’s expression crack, finally; into a bitter smile. “Yeah,” he says; soft, still. “Spending a lot of time in your own head makes you get real philosophical. And _annoying._ ”

 _In your own head—?_ And that’s as far as he gets; because, suddenly, it’s slamming onto him like a ten-ton bridge crashing down; the second Drift, and the third, and the fourth; and leaving Hermann, who he loves, and who, _god,_ loves him _back_ , for ten years, and working for a private sector company, trapped in his own mind; puppeted by genocidal _kaiju masters,_ by _Precursors;_ his fingers typing away at the keyboard as he codes line after line of the program that’ll help try and bring about (the second attempt at) the end of the world. Of Hermann gasping beneath his inhumanly-strong grip. Of the months—almost two _years_ , fuck—spent getting it _out,_ spent trying to get back to _himself_ after They’re stopped.

“Oh,” Newt croaks; and he’s stumbled at some point; fallen to his knees, because they burn, and that shouldn’t even be _possible_ here, but _whatever,_ “oh fuck. Jesus—Jesus _Christ,_ dude.”

The other’s smile tightens; he looks, for a moment, apologetic. “Yep,” he says.

“That's—that’s gonna _happen_ to me?” Newt asks; begs, almost, because—god, no, _no,_ it _can’t,_ they’re going to _win_ —

May-Newt, who Newt is beginning to suspect is just _Newt,_ shrugs. “Well, in _theory,_ ” he says, “Personally, I think you’re a hallucinatory version of myself that my brain cooked up to try and give me some sort of—dream closure?” He smiles; again; sharp and rueful; shrugs. “I’m, like, 80% sure I’m asleep right now.”

“Fuck _off,_ ” Newt rasps; knees stinging still, and he can’t figure out how to get _up._ “How do I know _you’re_ the real one?”

“Because dream selves can’t _tell the actual future,_ dipshit,” he snaps; and it’s the first time he’s raised his voice, and they both flinch at it; and the other’s gaze skitters nervously from his hands to the floor. “Look,” he says, after a few beats. “You’re me, we’re smarter than _this._ ”

“Apparently _not,_ seeing as you—we— _whatever_ —” he lets out a frustrated rush of air—" _Drifted_ with a _fucking_ kaiju brain! _Again!_ “

"Yeah, shove together a, ah,” and here the other stops; drags his fingers through his hair, and meets Newt’s gaze for the first time—"delicate mix of PTSD, a life shake-up, and alien mind control, and you’ve got a _real_ shitty chemical reaction, Peabody.“ His tone is, unexpectedly, dry; he seems to have said this before, at least in some variation.

"Don’t I— _we_ —have a reminder on our phone to take our meds?”

“It gets eaten,” the other says.

“Oh—ah, okay, so _that’s_ where it went. Fuck. Uh,” he laughs. “Probably tasted better than Hannibal, though.”

It’s a weak attempt at humour, but the other laughs; deep and hearty, and looks startled by it. “Man,” he says, almost wistfully, “I’d forgotten I can be funny.”

And if _that_ doesn’t say a fuckton about him. “Jesus,” Newt whispers, and sits down; because this whole _on his knees_ thing isn’t exactly the most fun. “What a terrifying thing to forget, dude. That’s like—our _one_ redeeming social quality-slash-skill. How the _hell_ did you get amnesty talking like someone from a Wes Anderson film high on shrooms?”

The other’s standing, still; and he looks uncomfortable; shrugs, breaks eye-contact. “Probably ‘cause it displays evidence of trauma or depression or "learning my lesson” or whatever,“ he says, nonchalant; or at least attempting it, but the words come out a little hoarse and Newt _knows_ this has been hurting him.

"What _fucking_ part of this was a _lesson we needed to learn?_ What the _fuck?_ ” Newt hisses; teeth biting, in his passion, into the inside of his mouth; not quite painful, but more than just a sting. “What the _fuck,_ ” he says, again.

“Hey,” other-Newt says; one shoulder raising higher than the other. “All I asked for was a remote little place in the middle of nowhere, preferably the Highlands, with no one around for a good fifteen miles, and a clause in my watchdog contract so I can buy as much fertiliser as I need, but—” he smiles; wanly, but almost… _proud,_ for a moment, before it fades—"they said _thank you for your service, Dr. Gottlieb, please stop making the UN members cry._ I don’t…really care what they think of _me._ “

"Yeah, but, like— _fuck,_ ” Newt says; the word half-hysterical. “All that’s going to happen to _me?_ ”

“Essentially,” the other deadpans; “have a nice decade.”

Newt drags in a choked breath. “That's—that’s not _fair,_ ” he whispers. “You…we _win,_ and then, and then, and—and then _that_ happens? That’s not _fucking_ fair.”

The other’s shoulders snap back; tense, and he says, quietly, _so_ quietly, “You think I’m not, like, _intensely_ aware of that, dude? That I don’t have—that I don’t have residual anger over the fact that I _literally_ sold my soul to save the world and then lost _ten years_ of my fucking _life_ and another almost two years in _torture jail?_ ” His tone’s rising, now, and he’s taken a few steps forward; hands clenched into fists, but all that Newt can focus on is the _pain_ in his eyes; the fear, and the _sadness._ “It _is,_ in fact, super unfair! And I—” he drags in a ragged breath. “I don’t even know what my brain is _doing_ with you!”

Newt blinks. “What do you mean?”

“Why—why _show_ me this?” he cries; and there’s tears in his eyes, now; and he scrubs at them violently. “Why fucking _torture_ me with the—the person I used to be before all this shit went down? Like—"haha, look, Newt, you were only _lightly_ traumatised”! Like, I fucking look at you, or, or— _me,_ or whatever, and how am I supposed to not get _sick_ at everything that hasn’t happened to you yet!?“

"You think it doesn’t scare me _too?_ ” Newt shoots back; presses his hands against a cold floor that doesn’t exist.

“You’re a _dream!_ ” the other hisses; turning away from him. “You’re not— _real. You_ don’t get to be scared here.”

Newt grinds his teeth. “Fuck _off,_ yes I _do!_ ” he nearly shouts; and his nails are digging into his palms, now. “I’m still _you,_ buddy, and _I_ still get to look at _everything_ I know is going to happen and be terrified! I—what am I even supposed to _do_ with all of this? I can’t _change_ what’s going to happen—I’m not _real,_ I get it, but I still don’t want to be—to be—”

He trails off into a choked sob; drops his head to his knees; lets the tears soak into what appear to be his jeans.

“Yeah,” says the other, quietly, after a moment; and he sounds closer. “I don’t…I don’t have a word for it, either.”

“What even _happened_ to us?” Newt whispers.

“We made it through. That’s supposed to be…to be _enough._ ”

“It’s not,” Newt mutters; through a tight throat. “It’s _not._ ”

“I…I know,” the other says, and Newt feels the air shift as he sits by his side. “I’m… _jealous_ of you, honestly, but—I mean, it’s stupid.”

“Try me,” Newt challenges; though it sounds more like a plea at this stage.

“Ha,” the other murmurs. “I look at you, and I don’t know…whether to feel terrified, or—or a little… _better._ ”

A beat; only the sound of Newt sniffling as he tries to breathe. “Why’s that?” he asks.

“Because…because after all those years, it’s still—it’s still _me,_ ” he says; quiet. “You are. I…I am. We’re different, but we’re _not._ ”

“Is it…is it bad if I don’t want to be you?”

“Nah,” the other says; aiming for cheerfulness, but coming off to much like he’s said this, too, before. “I wouldn’t want to be me, either. But that’s the way it is. We…” he pauses. “We make it through, though.”

Newt remembers. He swallows, thickly. “It _hurts,_ ” he says; muffled into the denim.

“A lot,” other-Newt says. “It did, and it still…it still _does._ But we—you, me—we’ve got Hermann. And friends, and—and _chickens._ ”

“Living out that sweet, sweet homosocial pastoral fantasy,” Newt croaks; but he’s smiling, a bit, and he suspects the other is, too.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah. Here’s looking at you, kid.”

“My condolences,” Newt says; because it seems appropriate.

“Nah,” the other murmurs; “it’s…it’s okay.”

And then, after a moment, he moves; his arms coming up to embrace Newt, pull him against him, gentle, and Newt half-melts into it with a sob of relief. He can't—god, he’s never going to be able to go back to this, that’s what they’re both thinking, but there’s…something like _freedom_ in that.

“Am I…am I going to be okay?” he asks; into the fabric of the other’s sweater; soft, and smelling a lot like he remembers Hermann’s body-wash does. He knows the answer already, but he needs to—he needs to hear him say it.

“No,” the other replies; and he’s rubbing comforting circles on Newt’s back. “But then…yeah. You’ll get better at it.”

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me at [autisticharrow](https://autisticharrow.tumblr.com/) on tumblr


End file.
